


They Say

by secretfeanorian



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2018-05-01 23:24:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5225054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretfeanorian/pseuds/secretfeanorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say Maglor Fëanorian died with a smile on his face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Say

**Author's Note:**

> This is old, like 3 years old, but I found it recently and shockingly still liked even after those three years, so I decided I'd post it, with slight changes.

Footstep after footfall. Breathe in; breathe out. Tracks behind filling with rain as soon as he can make them. The droplets pour down in sheets, battering the unprotected form as he struggles forward through the cold, making his endless way through the wilderness. Time and time again, he comes to a settlement; only to leave soon after. They are not what he is searching for. What **is** he searching for? One may only guess. As for who he is; none know his name and to none will he give it.  
  
Every step becomes a desperate struggle to hold his ground as the raindrops freeze to snow and the wind violently kicks up. His empty stomach rumbles warningly; his weakened and starved body cannot hold on much longer. One misstep or miscalculation could cause him to go tumbling off into oblivion. There is nothing, no trees for him to grasp onto and rest; even if only for a single moment.  
  
His cloak has long since been ripped from him and – elf or not – he feels a terrible chill coming his body as shivers race up and down his shine.  
  
In the darkness, he thinks he is still on the road, but he has no way of telling. He can only hope that he has not strayed from the path for it is his only hope of reaching the lights that have to flicker up ahead somewhere if he will only follow the worn cobblestones. He must trust the road to lead him to a safe haven along the path that he has trekked on for far too long.  
  
A collection of fires burn up ahead and he stumbles toward them, fervently praying for them to herald safety and not more danger.  
  
Only a few feet away now and he can make out forms huddled close together by the flames for warmth.  
  
Only a few more steps. He collapses; too weak to move any further and he watches his vision go hazy and feels a sense of freezing numbness spread over his body, helpless as the cold slowly consumes him. He is alive, but not for much longer.  
  
Unfamiliar voices flood his ears as painful warmth spreads across his body. He struggles to force his eyes open and finds flames staring back at him. No; not flames. Not flames, but red. A familiar color. He reaches toward it, unwillingly fascinated and he can no longer remember why.  
  
Suddenly, realization hits him and a smile – slowed by the cold – creeps across his face. “Muindor…” He whispers as his brother wraps his arms around him, leading him away.  
  
What he doesn’t realize is that his body does not follow him as his long-dead older brother guides him away.

**Author's Note:**

> Muindor = brother (in Sindarin)


End file.
